there is no other troy (for me to burn)

In the dream, I was waiting downtown, outside of a hotel, checking each face that passed by for the one I wanted to see most. I was wearing my backpack and carrying a camera in the pocket of my sweatshirt. I was also holding an umbrella. In a short while, I saw who I was looking for -- a woman a little older than me. Quite short, with a neatly shaved head and large, soulful eyes. She was lingering outside the hotel doors as if she, too, were waiting for someone.

I was nervous, but I walked right up to Sinead O'Connor and said hello, introducing myself. She gave me a warm welcome by hugging me and asking me if I had been waiting for long. No, not long. "Listen," I said, getting right to the point, "I know we've only just met, but I've been wanting to talk to you about some things . . . " And I continued, a bit nervous, but feeling like this was the best way to approach her, since I didn't want to faun or gush, but ask her some direct questions that I knew she'd have answers to. She listened very carefully to my questions. I cannot recall the exact content of the questions, but I know the questions bore an enormous emotional weight for me, as if I'd been waiting my whole life to ask someone for an explanation. Sinead was so good. She told me that she could tell I was doing everything exactly right, that the questions were what mattered, for now, and to know that, just as I was struggling with what to do with problems unearthed by memory, so she was, too.

Things then shifted. Sinead was bored and said she wished she knew what there was to do in Houston, that she couldn't wait to leave because there was nothing, nothing, nothing happening here. I told her that it wasn't true, and then advised her, with growing excitement, to walk over to Allen's landing and check out how the bayous run together between the university and the jailhouse. I imagined that Sinead would find this contrast stunning, and that she could spend time reading the history of the landing that's been engraved on the walls there, perhaps see some people in kayaks or canoes paddling past. She could explore the grounds of the old, boarded up Sunset Coffee House, look at how massive the city seemed when you are dwarfed by its still-changing architectural history. Maybe she'd write a song about it.

Just as Sinead was agreeing to go for this walk, it started to rain. The streets filled with pedestrians carrying umbrellas and, in the rain and the crowd, I lost track of her. Had she gone back inside the hotel? Was she already on her way to Allen's landing? Shouldn't I find a way to invite her home to meet H. and have dinner with her? Also, didn't I need to at least get an autograph and a photo, to remember this unbelieveable meeting?

The sun finally came out. The streets cleared. I headed back to where the hotel was and went inside. I wandered a maze of floors and corridors, wondering how I would know which room was hers, and for how long I should look before heading back home.

The last thing I remember about the dream is that I did manage to find her, again. No, she hadn't forgotten that she should get to Allen's landing, but she'd be on her way out of town that evening. I tried to act casual about the whole thing. O yeah. Of course. No big deal. It's cool. Well, it was really great to see you, I said. Yeah, it was, she said, smiling, but a bit distracted. Goodbye, now.

Bye bye.